Contemplating Suicide
by Phoenix Moon 13
Summary: In the days after Tomorrow, Wesley realises there are different kinds of suicide.


**_Contemplating Suicide_**

Author's Note: This is set very soon after _Tomorrow_, a matter of days, so Wesley hasn't yet discovered that Angel is missing.

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><p>He runs his finger over the small revolver before picking it up and weighing it in his hand. The weight was reassuring, yet terrifying. It made it real. Made placing it to his head and pulling the trigger frighteningly easy.<p>

He considers for a moment what would happen if he did just that. Just lifted the gun, placed it to his temple and squeezed the trigger. The entry wound would be neat, he guesses, but the exit wound would be hopelessly messy, with gore splattered over the chair and table and across the wall and carpet.

He doubts anyone would want this flat after hearing about the guy who blew his brains out over the coffee table, a guy not found for days.

Oh no, he has no fanciful ideas that Angel will have a change of heart and come round to make amends, only to find Wesley's slumped body in the middle of his living room. Wesley would like to think that his death would somehow move Angel and the others, perhaps enable them to forgive him.

Another part of Wesley hopes they feel bad if he dies. The spiteful side of Wesley wants them to feel guilty, ashamed.

He sets the revolver deliberately on the coffee table and leans away.

He would like to think he's above all that. He would like to think he's not the kind of person to give up and end it all when the going gets tough.

But he knows that's not true. He knows he's a coward really. Too scared to tell his best friend about the danger his son was in. Too scared to pick up a gun and pull the trigger, which, when he thinks about it, isn't the most difficult or complex of actions. It would all be over in three steps: Pick up gun. Place against temple. Pull trigger. Void.

There are other ways, he knows that

He has no rope and no inclination to go out in search of some, but he has an abundance of ties and could knot those together in order to hang himself. He could let Lilah Morgan find him dangling from the ceiling. And he thinks that ties would be somehow fitting, appropriate, a reminder of all those times he hid behind his well-made suits and pompous words, thinking he knew what was best. Yet he always managed to ruin everything. But as no one would understand the significance, what was the point?

There is another way, a way he could even enjoy. There's nothing in his apartment besides various bottles of alcohol – from Jack Daniels, to Smirnoff, to an exquisitely chilled Krug – and packets of pills for the hangovers. Surely a combination of those would be enough? And there's little chance anyone will turn up before the deed is done, he thinks with a caustic smile.

And yet he doesn't move. You don't need to be a hero to down bottles of whisky and pills. It's not like shooting yourself or hanging yourself, it doesn't really take guts because it's slow, painless. And yet he still doesn't move. He doesn't know why. He just leans back in his chair and looks at the gun, placed so carefully on the table.

He picks it up again, just to feel it this time, the heavy weight of it in his open palm. Sometimes he needs this reassurance that he's real, still able to touch things, still able to affect the world in some way. But even when he proves he's still there, nothing is ever as simple as it was, there are still questions.

The most prominent of which is _who am I?_

There are a multitude of answers and he chooses one depending on his mood. But really there are only two answers and neither one he likes. He is either a traitor or a fool. Nothing can be salvaged from either, least of all his dignity.

He places his gun in one hand and aims at the computer on the desk across the room. Doesn't do anything, of course. Again, what would be the point? It might come in handy one of these days.

He hears a key in the lock and looks up slowly, frowning. For one insane moment, his heart aches with the sudden certainty that Angel has come to say it's all right. But the footsteps are not the heavy tread of the vampire or even Gunn and they are definitely not the delicate steps of Fred. He's heard that Cordelia is still on holiday, so it's not her, not that he can see her choosing him over Angel anyway.

"Hello, lover."

Lilah Morgan smirks at him, holding up a key.

"Lilah," he says in a low voice, eyeing the key as he puts the gun back on the table. He makes no attempt to hide it. She wouldn't care; it would just give her something else to mock it about, especially if she caught him scrambling to conceal it.

"You ought to be more careful where you put this," she says, waving the key slowly from side to side as she circles his chair. He doesn't move as she leans over the back of the chair and slides the key into the back pocket of his jeans.

He doesn't answer her, but he stands as she pulls away. He grabs her wrist, wrenching her towards him so that she catches her shin against the chair and stumbles. He ignores her wince and the triumphant smile on her face and in a few paces, he's slammed her into the wall. She pulls her wrists free and he grabs her arms instead while she digs her nails hard into his shoulders.

"And I thought you were ready to end it all," she sneers, glancing over his shoulder to the gun on the table. "Good job I got here when I did."

"You think I'd decide to live for you?"

"No," she inclines her head towards him, unable to lean the rest of her body from where he has her pinned. "I just wouldn't want to miss your final fling."

"No, you just wouldn't want to miss _being_ my final fling."

He sees her pout begin to form, the smooth area between her eyebrows start to crease and knows that she is readying a retort. He is sick of the sound of her voice, all knowing suggestion and sarcasm, so he crushes his mouth against hers with all to force of a punch.

In a few minutes, he's come a long way, from suicide to sex. Not that he was ever truly considering suicide. He's not really that type of man.

_Anyway,_ he thinks, tangling his fingers tightly into Lilah's hair. _There are different kinds of suicide._

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><p><em><strong>The End.<strong>_


End file.
